


catch

by kakia



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Good Older Sibling Dick Grayson, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Protective Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakia/pseuds/kakia
Summary: “Okay,” Dick breathes, reaching out to cradle Jason’s face in his hands and press their foreheads together. “It’s okay, I’m here. Just breathe for me, buddy.”
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 5
Kudos: 187





	catch

**Author's Note:**

> If I was a better person I would probably follow canon, but instead here’s my take on what would have happened if Jason would have been given a trigger just like the rest of the team.

He doesn’t dare move, intent on keeping the slow, steady rise of Jason’s chest in a constant, unbreakable rhythm, warmth emanating from the kid’s body and seeping into his side.

He should have known it wouldn’t have lasted.

There’s a sharp crack as Gar drops a container of cereal, and Jason jolts, stiff and confused and irreversibly _awake_ , and Dick somehow manages to hold in his sigh.

“Easy,” He murmurs, watches the muscles tic in the kids jaw, the darting of bloodshot eyes to the window and the gaping void below, and Dick reaches out to set a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Just Gar.”

Jason glances over at him, sharp, calculating, measuring the weight of _Just Gar_ before finally easing back the slightest bit. It’s not nearly as relaxed as he’d been before, face slack and skin smooth with a dreamless sleep that only exhaustion could bring, but it’s a start. Dick doesn’t remove his hand. Jason doesn’t comment.

“Sorry,” Gar finally calls out sheepishly, throwing Dick a pleading look that screams _It was an accident, please don’t kill me_ , and he offers him a small smile and nods.

The quiet that had been before seems shattered somehow, unease with a sense of urgency practically radiating in the air between them, a sense of impending doom that makes Dick’s skin crawl, and his eyes flicker back over to the kid involuntarily.

Jason isn’t looking at him, is instead staring out at nothing, eyes blank, at the city beyond the pane of glass a ways away, and it almost looks as if he’s in pain, brow furrowed and mouth tilted in a little grimace that makes Dick ache, but he stays silent, and Jason does the same.

He’s vaguely aware of Gar finally leaving, and they’re once again alone in the commons, on the expansive couch that makes Jason look so, so small from where he’s curled up against his side.

Jason’s breath catches, a sudden thing, but expected nonetheless, and Dick uses the hand on his shoulder to tug him back towards his chest.

Jason resists, because he always does, knows no other way, but eventually his eyes slip closed in surrender, a pained noise slipping past slack, split lips when his injured thigh moves a little too quickly, and the noise makes Dick’s chest ache uncomfortably. He leans back, invitation clear, and Jason collapses the rest of the way to sprawl over top of him without further prompting, their legs, albeit carefully, tangling together and Jason’s face tucked into the crook of his neck, each unsteady breath tickling across his skin and sending shivers up his spine, and he waits a moment, lets them settle, then rests a hand on the small of the kid’s back, feels the muscles twitch at the touch, thumb swiping out to soothe away the instinctual response.

For a moment he doesn’t think that Jason will ever speak, not after the roof incident, after the Titans almost disbanding and the stress of dissolving the reappearing items fiasco, but then, finally, lips brushing against the skin of his neck, Jason murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

Dick’s thumb stills.

Jason continues. “I don’t deserve this. You. Them.” _Bruce_ goes unsaid, but the message is received all the same.

He wants to open his mouth to reply, wants to say so many things, like how much he’s grown to care for him, how much _Bruce_ has grown to care for him, the way Alfred talks about him, exasperated but fond, because maybe that will get through to him, maybe that will make him understand that he’s a fucking person and he deserves the world and was given anything but, but he remains silent and lets him speak. His neck is wet, he realizes, and he tightens his grip ever so slightly.

“I just - I cant - I keep fucking up.” It’s said so softly, so brokenly, voice breaking at the end, and Dick fights back the sting in his own eyes. “And I don’t want to. I try so hard, fight so much, and it only - it only makes things worse and I cant - “ A sob, soft, barely there, and Dick cuts him off with a comforting hum.

“It’s okay, Jason. It’s not your fault.” Because it’s not. It’s not his fault that Dick couldn’t control his own fucking anger, couldn’t stop himself from putting the kid down. It’s not his fault that they all made him feel unwanted after Slade fucking Wilson held him hostage and beat the shit out of him. It’s not his fault, none of it is, and the relevance of the fact that Jason is only _fifteen_ , still a kid for fucks sake, nearly takes his breath away.

Jason goes rigid in his arms, obviously not sharing his sentiment, and Dick can only hold on and wait for the outburst.

It comes more violently than he’d anticipated.

Jason is off the couch in mere seconds, standing and glaring down at him with those mournful, red-rimmed eyes but somehow gesturing with no less intensity. “Shut the fuck up.” He hisses, rage and defensive pain, and Dick watches him carefully. He’s trembling, he realizes, small tremors that rack his frame and spread until it’s full blown shivers, breaths whistling and eyes watering and Dick has no idea what to do.

“It’s always my fault.” Jason continues, tearing his gaze away to pace, frustrated, and Dick slowly sits up, pausing only when Jason stiffens and turns back to him, before rising. “You don’t have to tell me. _I know_. I’m the one who wanted to go without telling you, who convinced _Gar_ to not tell you. Me. Not you. _I’m_ the one who isn’t good enough for Bruce so he threw me out to the _golden boy_ , the one you don’t even trust to talk to. I’m _Robin_ , Dick. Benching me was fucking pointless. I handle shit worse than this on week nights!”

Dick doesn’t react to that, and instead listens to Jason rant and rave, waiting for the adrenaline to fade.

“I tried, I did, I did everything he fucking told me to do, and _none of it was good enough._ He would just always talk about _you_ and how my form was off and how maybe I needed to spend more time _fucking training_ , as if I wasn’t already bending over backwards to try and meet his stupid fucking standards.”

It’s logical, Dick supposes, to need an outlet for all the pain and anger Jason has buried inside, and if he has to be that outlet, then, well...

He knows he has to intervene, however, when Jason starts walking to the elevator.

“Jason - “

“Fuck you,” The kids voice had lowered, some of the fight leaving him, but he still shoves Dick away as soon as he’s within reach. “Fuck all of you, I don’t - “

Dick grabs him and yanks him to his chest, holding steady against the angry growl and the foot placing a wicked kick to his shin. Jason’s still talking, but it’s breathless, muffled from where he’s pressed against Dick’s shoulder, a repetitive _fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,_ until the noise tapers off and he lets Dick hold him, still trembling hard and fighting back tears.

“I have you,” He murmurs, and Jason’s shoulders shake as he finally comes undone, hands fisting in his shirt and pulling with no clear goal in mind. It seems to go on forever, the kid falling apart against his shoulder and shaking so hard Dick doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. But then, suddenly, Jason goes still, muscles twitching sporadically as if to resume the trembling, but what’s more concerning is how rigid he is in his arms.

When Jason pulls back, his face is carefully blank, cheeks still wet and eyes red rimmed, but clear of any tears, and Dick releases him carefully.

“Sorry,” Jason finally chokes out, and for a moment it’s as if he may cry again, nose scrunching and bottom lip trembling before going blank all over again. He’s frighteningly good at that, Dick thinks absently. Jason’s facade could almost give Bruce competition. “I need to go.”

“Where?” He says automatically, and winces at how condescending it sounds.

A glance, sharp. Then, the slow dawning of horror, the realization that there _was_ nowhere to go, where Jason just stares at him with his eyes so wide and terrified that Dick feels as if his chest is going to burst, then the kid looks away, swallows hard, before taking a step towards the hall.

“Gonna go to my room.” He finally says, and does just that, leaving Dick behind to stare after him.

His shirt is still soaked with tears.

* * *

It’s consuming him, the restlessness, the fear, the weightless sensation of falling, and he closes his eyes with a harsh exhale.

He just needs to calm down, breathe, think of something else, read a fucking _book_ , anything but staring out the window. Anything but falling.

His eyes burn, the consequences of yet another sleepless night spent huddled in the bathroom adjoined to his room, windowless and, best of all, lockable. One way in, the door across from the shower. No one could get to him, not Deathstroke, not the gaping skyline that mocked him day in and day out, _no one_.

His skin is sensitive and tingling, rubbed raw from trying to scrub away his traitorous tears, and he glances up at the mirror.

Greasy black curls, red rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes, pale skin and a sweat soaked sleep shirt.

Robin.

He mouths it to himself in the mirror, not wanting to shatter the quiet he’s carved out for himself, a single word. _Robin_.

Bruce would be so fucking disappointed in him.

He’d sent him here to get _better_ , to learn from Dick and to come back with some more experience under his belt, maybe even a new attitude, but no. Jason Peter Todd was hiding in his bathroom because being anywhere else made his skin prickle and his heart race. _Robin_ was hiding in his bathroom.

With a disgusted noise, he levers himself up and throws open the door, stalking through his room and throwing open that door, too, pleased when it slams against the opposite wall hard enough to leave it shaking on its hinges.

When he enters the commons, Gar and Rachel are staring at him, wide eyes full of pity and a little bit of panic, but he ignores it, plops down onto the couch and pretends to be more relaxed than he really is. He avoids looking towards the window altogether.

“So,” He’s always been bad with awkward silences, and this time is no different. “Anyone up for training later? Doesn’t necessarily have to be swords, either.”

Gar and Rachel share a look, one that obviously isn’t meant for him to see, and it makes that defensive rage he’s been trying so hard to stamp down flare up again. “You should be taking it easy.” Gar reminds, eyeing the doorway to the hall as if he’s begging for someone to walk through. Probably Dick, knowing how the other boy seems to worship the ground he walks on.

“Dick said we could take the week off, rest and recuperate.” Rachel adds, eyeing him carefully and doing a not-so discreet job of glancing down at his bandaged thigh.

Which is stupid, because it doesn’t even fucking hurt anymore. And there’s that feeling again, like the walls were closing in around him, crushing him, so he stands up and ignores the panic that sparks in Gar’s eyes.

“Alright,” He cant quite mask the bitterness in his tone. “I’ll train by myself.”

It’s fine. He doesn’t need the witch and her boyfriend, he can just -

He makes the mistake of walking by the window and looks down. They’re _so fucking high up_.

His legs don’t seem to be cooperating, because he’s frozen, staring down at the tiny cars and the even smaller people that are just barely visible, and his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears.

Something touches his shoulder and he jerks away instinctively, banging his elbow up against the window in the process. He hisses out a curse.

“Dude,” Gar’s hands are held out placatingly, worry in his tone, and Jason can’t even bring himself to look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He chokes, starts walking, doesn’t stop until he reaches his room and can slam the door shut and -

He can’t breathe, chest aching and legs like jelly and his vision is blurring with tears and he just wants to go _home_ , wherever that is, wherever he feels safe, because at this point he doesn’t even fucking know anymore.

_Throat tightening, wind tugging at his cape, a scream trapped in his throat -_

He presses the heel of his palms over his eyes, moans at the bile rising in his throat. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, _you’re fine._

There’s a brief, weak moment where he contemplates calling Alfred, but he dismisses the thought quickly. The butler probably had better things to do than listen to Jason’s problems, was probably running interference for Bruce on whatever mission he’d gotten himself into.

So. No Alfred. Definitely no Bruce, and unless Jason was planning on getting cozy with the rest of the Titans and playing nice, then he was out of options.

It’s hard to focus, to keep himself in the present, and he blinks rapidly to try and center himself, to drag himself _back_ because _no_ , he’s not _doing_ this again but then his gaze catches on the window and his limbs lock up and his vision goes white.

It could last hours or minutes, he doesn’t know, but he comes back with a jolt and his heart in his throat, pulse hammering beneath his skin and face wet with tears.

There’s something wrong with him. There has to be.

Dick and Bruce had faced far worse, had been captured and tortured and beaten by villains far deadlier than _Deathstroke_ , no matter how cynical the mercenary was, and here he was, falling apart in a cold room in an even colder tower all because he’d been roughed up and fallen off a building.

He needs to get his shit together, needs to just stop with the fuzzy drifting and the pounding heart whenever he sees a window. He can do it. He’s - He’s _the_ fucking Robin, he was supposed to _fly_ , if _anyone_ can do it it’s him.

And so he breathes. Slow, deep breaths that help clear some of the fog from his mind, and he lets the tension ease from his muscles. Safe. He’s safe, he’s in the Tower with Dick and Donna and Hank and Dawn and _everyone_ , he’s okay, he’s not falling.

After a few more purposeful deep breaths, he’s finally made aware of his current state, and he wrinkles his nose, grabbing a change of clothes and deciding on a shower.

A moot point when he walks into the bathroom he’d just been in moments before and sees the pill bottle sat innocently enough on the counter, tilted just so, but it’s not necessarily the bottle that catches his eye. It’s the name scrawled on the side.

He has just enough mind to throw himself at the toilet before he loses what little he’d eaten for breakfast.

* * *

There’s something incredibly frustrating about Deathstroke’s persistence, the patience to lie in wait and manipulate them each individually that just rubs Dick wrong. He’s been staring at the same screen for hours, combing through data, surveillance, any crumbs the mercenary might have left when he’d hacked into their security, and he’s so far gone in his work that he doesn’t hear Rachel until she’s right on him.

She’s out of breath, tears in her eyes and near desperate as she grabs his arm and _yanks_. “You have to help, we don’t know what’s wrong. It’s - He’s not - Deathstroke was here and - in Jason’s bathroom, there’s a bottle and now he’s just sitting there and he’s _cold_ and - “

“Rachel,” He reaches up, places both hands on her shoulders and takes a deep breath, encouraging her to do the same. “Calm down, breathe.” A beat, two, and when her chest stops heaving and she looks a fraction calmer, he continues. “What’s wrong?”

“Deathstroke was here again.” The girl blurts, and Dick bristles instinctively, glances over her head to study the hall behind them before meeting her eyes again.

“Where’s Jason?”

She turns, dragging him with her, talking as she goes. “Deathstroke, he left a - a bottle of some kind, looked like pills, but it was old, looked like it’d been shoved down a garbage disposal, and Jason is -“

They reach Jason’s room and he holds up a hand, cutting her off as he steps inside. If it’s bad, he doesn’t need Rachel somehow making it worse, and so he motions for her to stay back while he crosses over to the bathroom.

He can hear Gar talking before he even steps through the door, a low murmur of reassurances and mindless apologies that abruptly stops when Gar jerks his head up and catches sight of him.

“Dick,” He’s nearly breathless with relief, standing from where he’d been crouched by Jason’s side, tottering over on shaky legs, and Dick lets him slide by to join Rachel outside.

Jason doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him at all, and he almost looks dead, head titled back against the wall and eyes closed, face white and hands limp in his lap, but he flinches when Dick lowers himself down beside him.

“Hey, Jay,” He murmurs, frowns at the hiccuped breath that the sound of his voice prompts, before setting a careful hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay. He’s not here, we’re all fine.”

Rachel hadn’t been exaggerating, because when he reaches out to brush his hand against Jason’s cheek, it’s _freezing_.

“Okay,” Dick breathes, reaching out to cradle Jason’s face in his hands and press their foreheads together. “It’s okay, I’m here. Just breathe for me, buddy.”

Jason _is_ breathing, but it’s too slow, too robotic, slow chuffs of air that sound pained and raw.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” He taps at Jason’s cheek with a fingertip, gentle but insistent, and two bleary blue eyes open and settle on him, not quite focused, but he’s at least _listening_ to him, responding and trying to drag himself back. “Good, Jason, that’s good.”

Jason let’s out a soft noise at that, hands coming up to fist in Dick’s shirt, just holding on, before his eyes close again.

Dick doesn’t know how long they stay like that, him exaggerating his breathing and Jason struggling to copy him, letting out the occasional groan as if he’d been physically struck, before he suddenly tears himself away and lurches for the toilet.

Dick winces at the dry heaves, takes the opportunity to turn to the counter and -

The bottle, sat innocently enough, was covered in dirt and grime, the label torn in places and obviously weathered, but the name, printed neatly across the front, was in prime condition.

_Catherine Todd._

He swallows past the lump in his throat, tries to squelch the anger that threatens to rise and instead turns his attention back to Jason.

The dry heaving had stopped, but he looked spent, eyes closed, leaning against the wall and panting, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Dick snatches the bottle and tosses it through the doorway before Jason can open his eyes, hears a hum of confirmation as Gar picks it up.

“Jason.” He calls softly, and receives a throaty whine in response. “You with me?”

No response.

“C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

Jason tenses, eyes snapping open as he shoves himself back, even though there’s nowhere to _go_ , and Dick freezes, holds up his hands.

“Woah, easy, Jason, calm - “

“‘M not a whore.” Jason snaps, but there’s no real heat in it. If anything he looks terrified, big blue eyes wide and mournful with something shattered lurking beneath. “Please, I - I’m not, I don’t - “

Bile rises in his throat, dread sinking like a stone in his gut, and he closes his eyes for a moment, breathes through the anger and disgust.

“You’re not, Jason. You just need to sleep, okay? I won’t - “ He’s going to throw up, he knows, can feel his stomach turning, the acid rising in the back of his throat. “No one’s going to touch you like that. I promise.”

Jason’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter, his eyes gone half-lidded and glassy in his relief, but he nods, opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a groan.

Dick shuffles forward, hesitates. “Can I touch you, Jay?”

A small nod, barely there, but it’s all the permission he needs.

He’s lighter than Dick would’ve thought, head lolling against his shoulder when he picks him up, and it makes something oddly protective stir up within him, at the small, overwhelmed noise Jason makes when they start moving, and he leans down to press a quick kiss to his temple.

_He has_ not _gone soft._

Jason’s bed is untouched, perfectly made with not a wrinkle in sight, and he resolves to ask about that later, when the kid _isn’t_ half asleep in his arms.

The noise Jason makes when he lets him go sounds strangled, halfway between a whine and a groan, and he cards a hand through his hair, reaches for a blanket with the other. “I have you, Jay. Just rest.”

His eyes are closed, breaths slow and soft, but his mouth is still tilted in a grimace, brows furrowed and jaw clenched, and it’s almost instinctive when Jason reaches out and snatches his wrist before he can pull away.

“Don’ leave.” He slurs, and Dick cant stand it, the way the kid shivers and the weak, kittenish grip on him, and so he stays, sits at the edge of the bed and brings his free hand back to the mess of tangled black curls.

“I won’t,” He promises, and it’s worth it when Jason sighs, tension easing and lips twitching as if he wants to smile.

Dick stays until he’s sure he’s asleep, stays until the fire he’d carefully squelched fans so bright he feels as if he’ll explode, and then he’s carefully slipping out of the room and stalking down the hall.

He’s broken a promise, he knows, but it’s worth it to catch the monster who had ripped their fragile, tentative family apart, because if there’s one thing he _can_ promise, it’s that Slade Wilson is a dead man.


End file.
